Your hands are not yet tired

I wonder how that can be
when, at twenty-five, I already
feel the onset of carpal tunnel
or arthritis or a combination of both

Your hands are beautiful

Finer, smaller-boned than mine,
paler, the skin might even be
less wrinkly than mine, which
I’ve neglected despite your
gifts of creams and lotions

Your hands were always cool

Against my feverish forehead
when I would tuck myself
deeply into a pile of blankets,
anticipating that touch

Your hands,
tireless, beautiful, healing
they hold me still.


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